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CHAPTER TWO

“ I s there nowhere in this wretched place for a man to hear himself think?” Cyrus Deverell, Duke of Darnley, growled, wondering for the hundredth time how his friend had managed to convince him to attend a ball. A masquerade, no less: the most ridiculous of balls, in his opinion.

Anthony Everard, his supposed best friend, laughed heartily. “That is the spirit, Darnley! Be the roaring lion of your mask. Really sink your fangs into the role you have chosen.”

“Then, you ought to be a chicken, for you are hen-pecking me more than usual tonight,” Cyrus replied, readjusting the ludicrous mask.

It was heavy and, given the crowds and the heat of the manor, it felt as if it were slowly melding to his face.

As for choosing it: Anthony had given him the mask and demanded no protest, though it did not suit Cyrus at all.

A gentleman with fair hair and a golden complexion should have been wearing a lion’s mask, not a gentleman with pale skin and a mane of black hair.

The only benefit, as far as Cyrus could see, was that the mask was large enough to hide his scars. For one night, no one would have any reason to look at him in fear or horror.

Perhaps that was worth the discomfort.

Anthony arched an eyebrow. “Need I remind you that you are the one who asked for a reintroduction into society. Indeed, it may come as a shock to you, Darnley, but one cannot gain a wife by never leaving one’s residence.”

“I know,” Cyrus conceded, puffing out a breath to try and ease the tight feeling in his chest.

“You have been a recluse for far too long,” Anthony continued. “It is time for people other than myself and Silas to become acquainted with you, even if it is only until you have a bride and can steal her away to your castle. Though, I hope you will develop a taste for wider company.”

Cyrus managed a small smirk. “After all these years, have you finally grown tired of me?”

“Never.” Anthony grinned. “I am only thinking of you. Of course, I am happy to bear the heavy burden of being your closest friend on these fine shoulders of mine, but I will share it gladly if you feel inclined to make some other dear friends.”

Cyrus readjusted the weighty mask. “I have come for a bride, nothing more, so you may have to be disappointed in that regard.” He paused, glancing around the hallway of the elegant, crowded manor. “Surely, there must be somewhere quieter. Just for a moment, so I can take this mask off and breathe.”

Behind a somewhat smaller mask depicting a hawk, Anthony’s expression transformed from stern tutor to sympathetic comrade in an instant. A flicker of guilt passed across his eyes, as if he had just realized why his friend might have been wanting a moment of peace.

“I think I know somewhere.” Anthony nodded toward a branching passage, leading the way.

The relief was instantaneous as Cyrus entered what appeared to be a small personal library—not grand enough to be the main library in a manor so large and opulent, but crammed with too many books to be a mere study.

There were comfortable armchairs at the far end, framed by an aisle of bookcases, and Cyrus headed toward them without delay.

“That is better,” he groaned, lifting the mask onto his head. “Goodness, my neck is going to ache in the morning—the weight of this torture contraption!”

Anthony flopped down into the opposite armchair, chuckling. “You should be thanking me for strengthening your neck.”

“I shall thank you for aiding me in my reintroduction, as much as I despise the ton , but I will not thank you for this mask,” Cyrus insisted, delighting in the waft of a breeze on his face.

A window must have been left open somewhere in the library.

“If nothing else, it reeks of arrogance. Who chooses a lion? King of beasts?”

Anthony shrugged. “It was that or a bear, but the bear did not…”

He trailed off, but Cyrus did not need him to end the sentence; he could do that himself. But the bear did not cover as much of your face.

“Anyway, this seclusion is actually very timely, because I just happen to have something to help you in your pursuit of a bride, while you cool your face down,” Anthony said, skirting past any awkwardness.

He produced a folded piece of paper from his tailcoat and flattened it out on his knees, before passing it over to Cyrus.

“What is it?” Cyrus asked gruffly, wishing he had thought to bring a drink with him.

Anthony grinned. “I took the liberty of compiling a list of all the prettiest potential brides who are out in society.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I also took the liberty of ranking them—the best prospects are at the top; the wallflowers and troublesome ones are at the bottom.”

“I know how ranking works,” Cyrus grumbled, blinking to get his left eye to focus properly on the paper. Still, it was easier to close it and let his right eye skim the names that, at present, meant nothing to him.

“Although, perhaps I should have done them the other way around,” Anthony mused aloud, drumming his fingertips anxiously on the armrest. “Considering you are not very loquacious, if you were to marry a wallflower, you would likely never have to open your mouth again.”

Calling his friend a rude but reasonably affectionate word, Cyrus shook his head and continued to look down the list of names, noting just how diligent his friend had been: there were ages, descriptions, family details, some indication of fortune. Anthony had been thorough.

“I thank you again for your assistance,” Cyrus said. “This ought to reduce the amount of time I have to spend among these insipid people by at least half the Season.”

He paused, frowning at the final name on the list. “But what is this young lady’s crime, to be dead last?”

Anthony pulled a face. “Teresa Wilds? Oh, she is to be avoided at all costs.”

“Teresa Wilds ?” Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, is she anything like her name?”

He assumed that was why she was in the last position, according to Anthony’s judgment.

“Not at all,” Anthony replied, laughing.

“My dear mother would be more likely to find herself in the midst of a scandal than Teresa Wilds. If she were a color, she would be gray. If she were a flower, she would be a… well, she would not be a flower at all; she would be some manner of spiny weed that no one wants in their garden. If she were an animal, she would be a snail tucked in its shell. If she were?—”

“I understand; there is no need to continue with the comparisons,” Cyrus interrupted, flashing his friend a pointed look.

“She is dull, she is plain, she is odd, she is to be avoided. Although, one has to wonder why you would bother to put her on this list of eligible ladies if she is so unsuitable.”

Anthony shrugged. “An excellent point. I think I wanted it to be comprehensive, but I do not remember. I was imbibing as I made it. You are right, though; I should have left her off the list.” He stifled a snort.

“Goodness, I cannot imagine anyone worse to be the Duchess of Darnley. Quiet and docile are one thing, and you will find a great many suitable wallflowers on that list, but she is… I do not think there is a word for her peculiarity.”

“There is no need to search for one,” Cyrus remarked with a smirk.

Anthony jumped up. “No, but I do need to search for a beverage. One cannot discuss the pros and cons of society’s finest empty-handed.

” He began to walk away, though Cyrus did not lift his gaze from the list. “I shall bring you something potent. If I am not back in twenty minutes, I have been waylaid by a pretty thing in a rabbit mask, and I shall meet you later in the ballroom.”

Cyrus barely heard the door close, as he got up and went in search of a quill and ink. If he was to make his pursuit of a bride move quicker, it was to his benefit to start striking off a few names right now.

Of course they are talking about me like that. Of course they think they can say what they please without any regard for me.

A short while ago, Teresa had been unnerved by the odd grates in the wall of the servants’ corridor, appalled by the idea of anyone spying, but now she was glad of them, glad she could observe these awful, wretched, shallow gentlemen and see them for what they truly were.

Although, the view through the grate was actually more limited than she had expected.

She could see the legs of the man who had sat back down in the armchair, while the other man did not seem to be returning, and she could see the man holding a piece of paper in one hand and something else in the other, but he had not angled the paper so she could observe it properly.

Just then, the man leaned forward, setting the paper on a small table between the two armchairs. Beside it, he put the mysterious object: an inkwell.

Yet, he had not leaned far enough forward for her to be able to see his face, only his hands, his forearms, and his legs.

Holding her breath in case he somehow heard her through the wall, she watched as he dipped a quill into the ink, brought the darkened, sharpened tip to the paper… and scratched out her name with such a violent flourish that tiny beads of ink splattered across the vacant bottom of the page.

You think you can erase me? The thought crashed through her mind as violently as the scrape of his quill across her name.

Before she knew what she was doing, before she could stop herself, she had flung open that narrow servants’ door and marched out into the room.

The man stood sharply and brought his mask down onto his face before she could glimpse it, though he did not seem to flinch or start at her abrupt arrival, turning toward her as if it were perfectly normal for furious women to emerge from solid walls.

A thousand barbed words attempted to leap from her tongue, but the sight of him had tied it into knots.

Rather, the height of him had. He had not seemed quite so tall before.